


Serbian Nightmares

by Inner_Devil



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Comfort, Complete, M/M, Nightmares, PTSD, Scars, Suffering, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 03:27:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11118948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inner_Devil/pseuds/Inner_Devil
Summary: After Sherlock's return from Serbia, he refuses to talk about what happened. But John recognises the symptoms of PTSD, having suffered from them himself. He can see the scars, both physical and emotional/mental, that Sherlock's time away has left him with and just wants to help.





	Serbian Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

> TW for violence, PTSD, and scars
> 
> For an anon on Tumblr

_Crack!_ The whip snapped against his back repeatedly, one after the next after the next in a seemingly endless stream of beatings. His hair is drenched with sweat and the entire room smells putrid from bodily waste, vomit, and blood. How long had he been here? Two weeks? A month? Years? He'd lost track of time now in the windowless room. Thick Serbian accents demanded information they knew he had, but he remained silent. At first he would respond with his own snippy comebacks in perfect Serbian, or sometimes other languages they wouldn't understand. But he'd stopped all of that now, accepting that he'd likely die here.

 _Crack!_ The whippings kept coming. But that wasn't all. Oh, far from it. The whip was the least of his worries. He was beaten with a metal pipe, leaving bruises all over his body and broken ribs that refused to heal. His nails were pulled out slowly, digging into the sensitive, oozing flesh beneath them. Occasionally his uncleaned wounds got infected, causing even more pain and illness for him. His fingers were broken, allowed to heal, then broken once more. Still he refused to break. Knives were pressed deep into his soft, pale skin, leaving scars everywhere they touched. As the blood spilled from his open wounds and his captors gave him time to properly feel all his new wounds, he faded from consciousness as the pain became too much.

...

Sherlock woke drenched with sweat in his bed, body aching and eyes wide as he sat up. Blood was pooling beneath his skin in the form of bruises and was starting to bead up on his arms. Not again. Whenever he had these nightmares, he ended up hurting himself in his sleep. Glancing around, he let out a soft sigh. It was okay. Just a dream. A nightmare, really. Memories of his time in Serbia coming back to haunt him at night. He knew it was a classic symptom of PTSD and that he could get help to make it stop or at least to control it, but he refused to ask. He wouldn't talk about this. 

"Sherlock? Everything okay?" came a concerned, familiar voice from the doorway. John had come to check on him.

"Hm? Oh, yes, fine," Sherlock insisted, running a hand through his sopping wet curls. "Why do you ask?"

"You were screaming in your sleep. Again," the blonde answered, then sighed and came to sit on the edge of the bed. "That's the third time this week, Sherlock. Something's going on. Just please tell me."

"John, I'm fine," the detective continued to argue. But John wasn't buying it.

"I've seen the scars, Sherlock. They weren't there before. You don't have to tell me every detail of what happened while you were away. But if something or someone hurt you......I know that can leave scars. And not just in the physical sense. Any trauma can cause this. And I want to help you. Just please.....let me," John insisted.

Silently, Sherlock took off his shirt that he'd taken to sleeping in and let John see the scars that littered his body. Some long, some short, some newer, some very old. Neither man said a word as John reached out and touched the scars gently. He could only imagine what could've caused these wounds. Many of them were clearly from deep wounds that he was certain had left tissue damage. Maybe even muscle damage. This wasn't a typical wound. It wasn't from a freak mugging or anything like that either. John had seen this sort of thing before. Maybe not exactly like this. But similar. Torture. He'd been a war doctor. He'd seen rescued prisoners of war that were skittish and deeply wounded, physically and psychologically. He'd dealt with them all slowly and knew that sometimes they needed a comforting touch just as much as they needed medical care.

So, in silence, he took Sherlock into his arms and just hugged him for a moment. The brunet was a bit shocked at first, but soon relaxed and closed his eyes, resting his head against John's shoulder. Words weren't necessary in that moment as John gently played with Sherlock's curls to comfort him. The unspoken words comforted them both, letting each know that the other understood and was there for support at any time. There was a bond there that no one else had, something that couldn't be broken. And they'd be there for each other through the nightmares, flashbacks, and more. John bandaged Sherlock's new wounds, making sure these were cleaned and wouldn't get infected.

 "Serbia," Sherlock muttered.

"What?" John asked.

"I got them in Serbia," he repeated. "The scars. There were.....pipes. Whips. Pliers. Knives. I couldn't see anything. My eyes were swollen shut for a while. A few weeks, maybe. They pulled out my finger nails. Beat me daily. Broke my bones over and over. I finally just stopped talking. Sometimes I worried I would forget how to talk at all. I thought I might just let them cut out my tongue. But they wanted information from me, so they would never do that. Instead, they carved into my skin over and over. Broke every physical aspect of me."

John nodded as he listened, reaching up to wipe away the tears Sherlock wasn't even aware he was crying. There had been plenty of suffering while Sherlock was away, that much was obvious. 

"I screamed. I cried sometimes. I spat blood," Sherlock continued. "They cut my tongue from time to time, but never took it out. Never hurt it so badly I couldn't talk. Once they cut a vein and let me bleed until I passed out before someone did a shoddy job of fixing it. It got infected and so did a lot of the others. I was in the hospital for months before Mycroft told you I was home. They thought I might die from all of the infections I'd gotten."

"It's okay," John murmured, continuing the comfort he knew Sherlock needed. He listened and provided comfort for Sherlock anytime he needed it, staying all night long. They were always there for each other.


End file.
